


Chapeau

by QuantamTheory1



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 04:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11683704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuantamTheory1/pseuds/QuantamTheory1
Summary: Written for Reverb 2017 and based on the prompt and fiber art of my fantastic partner, L0chn3ss.A/U - Maka is a hospice resident struggling to cope with the many deaths she's forced to witness.  On top of that, a mysterious man has shown up; a man that only she can see.





	1. Introduction

The beautiful Royal Quilt patterned scarf and painting created by lochn3ss as part of her Reverb Prompt. More artwork to come!!!  
  
Story begins in the next chapter!

    


	2. Chapter 2

She was barely into the second month of her residency at Harbor Hills Nursing Home and Hospice, and she was losing it. She'd just failed to save her patient. Another patient, and failure sat poorly with Maka Albarn. So poorly that she was hiding in the Pain Management office. An ironic choice. For the first time in twenty three years she didn’t feel like she was capable of managing anything. Not her own pain, and certainly not anybody else's.

Maka felt tears welling up, and a surge of fury rose along with them. Crying was for other people, not her. She was tougher than that. She’d breezed through four years of med school at the top of her class. One of the few who were utterly unaffected by gross anatomy dissections. The only person who never got stumped during rounds. The one who never faltered in the face of whatever horrors the emergency room threw at her.

"Stop it!" she scolded herself, fisting her nails into her palms, "It's a nursing home; it's a hospice for crissakes. Losing patients shouldn't be a shock. What the hell is wrong with me?"

The DNI had to be at the root of her disgusting breakdown. Yes, that had to be it. She'd done everything allowable under the terms of the document, but when CPR, defibrillation and epinephrine had failed, she wasn't allowed to intubate. After twenty-five harrowing minutes, she'd had to stand aside and watch her patient die, knowing the whole time that she could have saved him had she been allowed to use artificial means to prolong his life. When she closed her eyes the three mocking letters on the whiteboard in room 214 burned against her closed lids. DNI. Do Not Intubate. Forced failure.

Maka took a deep breath, trying to ignore how shaky it was. She ran her index fingers under her lower lids to make sure her mascara hadn't smudged and then smoothed her jacket. She retrieved her stethoscope from the desk where she'd thrown it and settled it back around her neck.

Fixing her face into a neutral-but-pleasant expression, she forced herself out the door and back toward the hospice wing. She nodded at nurses, said hello to three patients in the hall and had a quick, unplanned conference with 119's concerned daughter-in-law. Maka assured the woman that giving up Jazzercise for Tai Chi at eighty-one was not a sign of impending death and hurried on. She had to return to 214 whether she liked it or not. A responsible adult didn't just leave a dead body lying around.

She was so absorbed in mentally practicing the phone call she was about to make to the deceased's family that she almost ran into a boy coming out of her former patient's room. She dodged just in time to avoid a collision and heard him gasp in alarm. The guy had yellow eyes and they were wide with surprise. He plastered himself against the wall, arching his back over the rubberized gurney bumper in order to get as far away from her as possible.

His reaction was odd, but Maka attributed it to possible shock. Bodies weren't something the average person walked in on every day, and based on his looks she was positive the guy wasn't a medical professional. He wasn't, she realized as she examined his face, a boy at all. He was around her age, but his skate punk clothing gave him the look of a rebellious teenager. Well, that and the three white stripes he'd seen fit to bleach into his coal-black hair. Grownups simply didn't do that sort of thing. Not real grownups, anyway.

"Excuse me," Maka said, "But you really shouldn't be in there."

"Oh! I...um...sorry..uh." he faltered. Conversing with another human being seemed utterly beyond him. In fact, he seemed scared of her, which made his behavior seem even sketchier. Well, whatever his problem was, she didn't have time to think about it now.

"Pardon me," she said, forcing politeness into her voice as she made a wide berth around him. He was giving off unsettling vibes that made her anxious not to touch him, either; to not even brush her sleeve against his.

She closed the door to 214 firmly behind her and postponed her phone call long enough to inventory all the drugs and personal belongings in the room. Just in case.


	3. Chapter 3

Seven-thirty found Maka off duty, staring dully into her locker at her white coat. She'd slumped the minute she'd removed it, as if it had been the only thing holding her up. For a moment, she actively resented the damn thing and thought she might never put it on again. It was a silly, indulgent thought, of course. She wasn't the sort of person who gave up after a bad day, but...there had been a lot of bad days lately. She dragged her purse over her shoulder and dug her keys out, even though the thought of driving home was too exhausting to contemplate. Maybe she wouldn't leave just yet. She'd stop by and see Mrs. Rossi first.

Maka wasn't alone in her affinity for Cheryl Rossi. Nurses stopped by on their breaks and other patients came in to chat. Even visitors regularly popped in on their way to and from seeing their own family members. Maka had never met a more remarkable person.

When the tumor on her spine started to metastasize, she'd calmly presided over her own estate sale, sold her house, and dumped most of the cash into her granddaughter's college fund before taking up residence on the nursing home side of Harbor Hills.

"That way," she'd told Maka cheerfully, "I can just move from one side of the building to the other when the ends comes."

The end was creeping closer every day, and Maka hated the thought.  Mrs. Rossi no longer had the use of her legs, and the cancer was creeping into her brain at a steady pace. In spite of that, the woman smiled brightly when the little blonde resident appeared in her doorway, and invited her in with real affection.

"You've had a rough day," she said, and it was a statement, not a question.

"It was definitely a challenge," Maka admitted, folding herself into the armchair beside her patient's, "I thought a little knitting might relax me, if you're up to it."

"I'm always up for that. Get your bag."

After informing Maka that she needed something other than work and textbooks in her life, Cheryl had decided to give her knitting lessons. Maka spent several of evenings or breaks each week slowly learning how to cast on, work increases and decreases and fix the holes that regularly showed up when she dropped stitches. She'd finally moved on from basic garter and knit patterns and had to stop to fix mistakes on a much less regular basis.

Maka fetched her plastic sack of materials from the closet and settled in for a half hour of work. Her fluffy pink shawl grew another three inches under her patient's tutelage and by the time the night nurse came in Maka was able to smile again. She stowed her knitting away and bid goodnight to Mrs. Rossi and Nurse Kim, feeling lighter and able to face her drive home.

Her improved mood lasted until she was halfway across the staff parking lot. The creepy-crawly feeling of being watched skittered across the back of her neck and adrenaline shot through her tired body. She glanced nervously over her shoulder as she hurried toward her car, but didn't see anyone.

 _It's nothing._ Maka told herself, searching the dark tree line at the edge of the lot where deep shadows thrashed. _It's just the wind._

Her body wasn't the least bit convinced, and fear tightened her throat. She was fumbling with her keyfob when one of the shadows broke loose and fell over her. She heard a frantic flapping noise, and something brushed the top of her hair. Maka lurched backward with a strangled scream as an enormous raven landed on the roof of her Subaru.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The pavement hurt when she hit it, but Maka was too busy scrabbling away from the car to care. She did not like birds or surprises, and combining the two made things exponentially worse.

"Oh my God," she gasped, leaning back on her scraped palms.

The raven cocked its head, studying her intently. It fastened her to the pavement with its nasty, glittery little eyes and Maka felt her scalp crinkle. She felt odd, and the longer she looked at the bird, the worse she felt. There was something wrong about the creature and for the second time that night, she felt disturbing vibes. This time she _knew_ what that meant, and it made her heart sink.  She'd thought she was done with that sort of thing. Apparently she was wrong. Being wrong pissed Maka off, and her temper, when unleashed, was a wild and dangerous thing. As the raven was about to find out, it was best to stay on Maka Albarn's good side.

Four minutes later, she was barreling toward the freeway, trying to calm down enough to tell her car's handsfree system to dial the one person she trusted enough to share a girly meltdown with. Her voice shook so badly that she had to repeat the command three times before she was finally connected.

"A huge bird just put its filthy, germy feet in my _hair_." she screeched by way of greeting when he answered the phone.

She wasn't surprised by his lazy chuckle. She'd expected it and Soul Evans never disappointed. She imagined him leaning against the kitchen counter in his sleek modern apartment, a wicked grin flashing beneath artfully tousled hair. He'd be getting ready to go open his club, making sure that it lived up to its reputation as the best jazz venue in Chicago.

"Very Alfred Hitchcock. Sounds like you lived through the experience, though.” His deep calm voice hovered on the edge of sarcasm, "How'd the bird make out?"

"I smacked the shit out of it with my purse and it flew away. Soul, I'm not kidding. It was enormous. Like, bigger than that turkey we cooked sophomore year enormous! It came after me in the parking lot at work."

"So you were almost maimed by an eagle. At a nursing home. Sounds legit."

"It wasn't an eagle, idiot.  It was a raven.  And...there was something wrong with it." Maka paused, not sure how to put her trepidation into words.  Not knowing if she should even try, "It was looking at me funny."

"Sure it was,"  Soul said, and Maka just knew that grin was back on his face. If she was in the room with him, he'd get her purse upside the head, too.  Bird germs and all.

"It was!" she insisted, "It was weird; like it was more than just a bird, you know?"

"Now _I'm_ looking at you funny."

"I'm serious," Maka replied defensively, "I'm not sure it was a real bird."

Soul snorted, "And I'm not sure you should be spending any more time with your hippy dad.  You know I don't believe in that stuff, M."

Aside from her odd belief in, and avoidance of, the supernatural, Maka was the most grounded, scientific, factual person Soul knew.  He blamed her quirks on the aptly-named Spirit Albarn, the rune casting, pentacle drawing, sage burning father who'd raised her.

So Soul always humored his otherwise logical best friend when she’d insisted on changing their walking route to avoid ill-intentioned fairies. When things went missing in their college apartment she put dishes of honey-laced milk on the windowsills to lure pixies away, and he never said a word. In their years as roommates he'd gotten used to keeping a coin and a candle on the coffee table to pacify the maan haltija of the house. So used to it that he kept a set in his Michigan Avenue loft out of habit. She'd mostly outgrown that sort of thing, and Soul blamed her relapse on the pressure her residency was putting on her.

"I know you don't," Maka sighed, "I try not to believe it either. But it gave me the creeps."

"That I understand.  Listen, I've gotta get to work.  Go home and chill, you've been working way too hard.  Take a hot bath or something.  And wash your hair; birds have lice."

Having successfully diverted her attention from the supernatural, Soul wisely hung up so he wouldn't have to hear Maka cursing at him the rest of her way home.


	5. Chapter 5

Maka saw the strange man twice the next day. The first time he stared a hole through her, but when she saw him in the hospice after lunch he gave her a shy little wave from the far end of the hall. She waved back hesitantly, wondering why on earth he gave her such a bad case of the willies.

Maybe he's a volunteer, she thought. He looked awfully edgy to be a volunteer, though. Mandatory community service was a more likely explanation for his presence.

"Who's that guy?" she asked the duty nurse when she stopped by the main desk to pick up some charts. "About my age? The one with the white stripes in his hair?"

The nurse shrugged, "Don't think I've seen him. Family member, maybe?"

"Couldn't be," Maka replied, "I saw him in the nursing home this morning and in the hospice about ten minutes ago. He can't have relatives on both sides. Nobody's that unlucky."

"Don't know what to tell you, Doctor." The nurse shook her head and returned to her work, "Half the kids I see nowadays have dumbass hair. One more isn't going to stand out."

In spite of his hair and clothes, the guy looked nice enough. Handsome as hell if Maka was honest with herself. _Maybe he's a volunteer_ , Maka thought. He looked awfully edgy to be a volunteer, though. Mandatory community service was a more likely explanation for his presence. Or maybe he was casing the rooms for drugs or valuables, even though she hadn’t found anything missing from 214. She had the feeling he was up to something. 

An emergency call came over from the hospice side and Maka ran to room 227, holding the end of her stethoscope so it wouldn’t hit her in the face. A fellow doctor and two nurses were already working the code when she arrived and asked if she could be of assistance.

“Don’t think so,” the younger nurse replied softly, “We’re not going to be bringing this one back.”

A wave of sadness at the news was abruptly forgotten when Maka noticed the man with the striped hair beside the bed. Why on earth hadn’t the crash team thrown him out? Not only was his presence inappropriate, but he was touching the patient’s face.

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

Dr. Sanders glanced up at her, “We’re working a code, which is what you just said you came in here for.”

“No, what’s he doing in here? He needs to leave.” Maka said pointing impatiently toward the man. Her co-workers, all women, took a quick look at what, to them, was an empty space. The older nurse gave Maka her best “crazy-ass residents” look.

“You having a stroke? ‘Cause if you are you’re gonna have to wait your turn.”

“Shit!” Maka exclaimed involuntarily. That’s why he’d been giving off those strange vibes. He’d surrounded himself with a glamour. A glamour that made him invisible to anyone without the innate ability to see past it. An ability like Maka’s.

The stranger took advantage of the momentary confusion to hastily press his palm against the patient’s forehead. To Maka’s amazement, the woman in the bed immediately stopped struggling. The man, on the other hand, arched backward, gritting his teeth as if he was in immense pain. The chilling whine of a flatline on the heart monitor was accompanied by a flash of blue light. Blue light that came from the guy’s ass.

What even the fuck?

Maka was momentarily paralyzed by shock and the electric tingle that rushed through her body as the man pushed past her. By the time she’d gained her bearings, he was already pulling open the fire door at the far end of the hall.

She charged after him into the emergency stairwell, following his clanging footsteps up the metal stairs. He was fast, but she was faster and she exploded through the roof access door hot on his heels, arriving just in time to see him preparing to leap off the top of the building.

“Don’t you dare!”

Her scream made him pause and she used every second of the advantage she’d gained to tear across the space between them. She felt a flash of triumph as her fingers folded into the collar of his shirt, and she yanked backward with all her might.

“What are you doing? What was that light? What the FUCK IS GOING ON?” she yelled as she tackled him to the ground and dropped into a takedown hold. He flailed wildly, but there was no way he was getting away from the girl who’d been the star of her college Judo club and still worked out regularly. Even her uber-basic kesa gatame was too much for him.

“Stop! Get off me,” he shouted, twisting desperately, “You’re going to break it. You’re going to break it.”

“You were going to jump off the top of a five story building and you’re worried about me breaking your arm?” Maka panted. If she wasn’t so out of breath, she’d have laughed.

“Not my arm, The JAR!”

Jar? Did he say “jar”? His face was buried in her cleavage; maybe she hadn’t heard him properly. She freed his head but kept his shoulders controlled by planting her knee on one and an elbow on the other.

“What jar?”

“In my back pocket!” he writhed again, trying to get his right hip off the tarmac to protect his treasure. Maka leaned across him and and shoved her hand into his pocket. She scrabbled wildly, groping enticingly firm flesh through the baggy fabric until her fingers closed around something cold and hard..

“Give that back!” he gurgled as she held her prize aloft. It was, indeed, a jar. A little mason jar; the kind they served artisan jam in at Soul’s favorite hipster brunch destination. Except she’d never seen jam move. Or glow bright blue, for that matter.

“Eww! What IS this?” she asked.

His only response was a strained gagging noise and she realized her elbow was jammed into his throat.

“If I let you go are you going to behave yourself?” Maka asked in her best doctor voice, “No attacking me or trying to commit suicide?”

He nodded as well as he could and she pushed backward into a powerful roll that brought her gracefully to her feet between him and the stairwell. If he tried anything, she could run downstairs into the sixth floor lab before he got anywhere near her.

They eyed each other warily as he got to his feet. He coughed and rubbed his throat, trying to get his voice back. When he did, he used it to tell Maka she was crazy.

“ _I’m_ crazy?” she snapped, “You skeeve around in a nursing home looking like a hoodlum, loitering around corpses, touching a dying patient and I’M CRAZY?!”

“I don’t think anybody has used the word hoodlum since most of your patients were teenagers,” he replied, trying to sound superior in spite of his croak, “Now please, I need that back.”

“Not until you tell me what it is.”

His yellow eyes bored into her, “What do you think it is?”

“How should I know?” Maka asked disdainfully, “Probably some kind of glow crap you take to raves with your fuckboy friends.”

He heaved a pity-filled sigh, “You try so hard to be like everybody else when you know you're not, don’t you? You know you shouldn't be able to see me, and you know that’s not a glow stick. Denying your power isn’t doing you any favors. And, frankly, nothing about you is doing me any favors. If we have to work together we might as well try to make it pleasant.”

“Work together!” Maka cried, “You don’t work here.”

“I beg to differ. This facility is definitely on my route now.”

“What does that mean? Are you some kind of delivery boy, or insane, or both?”

The man gave her a wry smile, “I’m not insane, but you’re pushing me in that direction. Admit it, you know exactly what I am.”


	6. Chapter 6

He was challenging her. Trying to throw her off balance and topple her into a place she didn’t want to go. To make her say things out loud that she didn’t even want to think about. Things she wasn’t going to think about, no matter what a handsome lunatic said or did. Luckily, she had plenty of experience handling men who thought they were smarter, or stronger, or just plain better than she was. This poor little street punk wasn’t going to know what hit him. He could barely talk to a human being, let alone one who’d learned how to elbow her way into the boys’ club that still dominated the medical world.

Maka met his gaze evenly and gave him a slow taunting grin. “I don’t have to admit anything,” she said smugly, “But I do have to go back to work.”

She held up the glowing mason jar, “And since you won’t tell me what this is, I guess I’m just going to have to hold on to it.”

“You can’t!” He yelped, “You have to give it back.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she said smugly, “It could be a health hazard. It could pose a major biological or chemical threat. I might even have to open it up and run some tests on it.”

Now he was scared; she could tell from his sudden change in posture and the widening of his golden eyes.

“You can’t open it,” he pleaded, “Promise me you won’t open it.”

“Tell you what,” Maka said with affected nonchalance, “I’ll promise not to open it if you promise to explain all this. I get off at seven. Meet me at the front entrance at quarter after and we’ll talk about this. If I like what I hear, I’ll give this back. Until then, stay out of my hospital.”

He’d been put very firmly into his place, and he knew it. He nodded in agreement, lips tightening into a thin, icy line.

“Fine.”

“And just in case you’re planning anything shifty, don’t.” she added, “You know I can see you, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve too.”

He snorted, “Yeah? Like what? Other than blackmail, I mean.”

She made a quick motion with her fingers and then flicked them in his direction. The man flew backward and landed hard on his back, gasping as the wind was knocked out of him. He struggled, but couldn’t seem to get back up.

Maka slipped the jar into the pocket of her lab coat and gave it a little pat.

“Guess it was a good thing I had this after all, huh? Otherwise, you’d be picking glass out of that butt cheek for a week. See you tonight, Delivery Boy.”


End file.
